There's a First Time For Everything
by chibiMuffin999
Summary: There's a first time for everything. Set roughly between First Impressions and Mawwiage, these are some important first moments for Sherlock and John. (Obviously Johnlock) Not in chronological order unless indicated. There are a couple of mildly explicit chapters, but they are in character and not overly graphic. You will be warned at the beginning if you don't want to read them.
1. A Study in Domesticity

The first time Sherlock Holmes kissed him, it was soft and sweet and gentle, and that fact surprised him. Until it happened, he'd have expected either nothing or something awkward and heated in the rush of the moment. Instead, it was as natural as breathing.

* * *

He'd been reading at the time, half-asleep, and thoroughly relaxed. For once, he'd chosen to lie down on the sofa, head on the arm-rest, one leg crooked against the back cushions. A cup of tea steamed cheerfully on the coffee table across from him and a soft snowfall was coming down outside. Sherlock had been playing his violin for the last two hours and showed no sign of even realizing he was still in the room; but the music was pleasant, and Sherlock hadn't started squawking across the strings as he often did when he wanted to be left alone. It was unusually domestic for them, and John basked in the comfortable warmth of it all.

He'd been dozing off and on for the last hour or so, and he suspected it was the soft, meandering concerto flowing out of the violin that was doing it. He didn't notice that the music had trilled into stillness at first, but he felt fairly sure it was the absence of the warm, gentle notes that woke him as he blinked up into Sherlock's hovering face - still feeling lazy and a bit bleary. The expression regarding him was neutral, but John knew the man well enough to recognize '_relaxed_' in the way the skinny detective held himself. He smiled.

"Done playing?"

Sherlock didn't answer, but tilted his head slightly, regarding him with an idle curiosity. Then he smiled back, lowering his head until his breath danced gently across John's face. It was intimate and comfortable and wonderful. He could think of nothing more natural when the detective closed the tiny distance between them and pressed a very gentle kiss against his lips.

Sherlock's eyes were, as usual, watching for a reaction as he pulled back slightly. Judging if he'd gone too far. John reached up, lazily, and brushed a hand down the side of the younger man's face, pleased to see Sherlock's eyes drift closed as he leaned into the touch. The other hand slid through Sherlock's curly hair and gently drew him back in. He kissed the man's forehead first, then the bridge of his nose, and finally ended at the lips, mirroring the same gentle kiss he'd received a few moments before.

Through it all, Sherlock was unusually relaxed. There was a timidity, an uncertainty, but for once Sherlock Holmes wasn't trying to be aloof or detached. He wasn't pulling back, sarcasm and cruel comments at the ready. He was submitting to the attention and the affection gladly. And that was perhaps the most intimate part of it all.


	2. Hold On To Me

Their very first embrace had been a slightly awkward and uncoordinated affair. Sherlock had been freshly recovered from his injuries following the fall and he'd spent most of the time they'd sat together completely zoned out, doing… whatever it was Sherlock's mind did when he stared into space. The second was perhaps not quite as large a milestone, but it was the one John remembered more fondly.

* * *

It was late April, sliding into May. He had just closed his laptop when he noticed Sherlock, as usual, staring out the window at the rainy streets below. Sherlock looked oddly mythical backlit by the misty streetlights and passing headlights - his bathrobe fluttering like a cloak in the slight spring breeze that tumbled in through the window they'd opened earlier. Sherlock had set fire to rubber in the kitchen for some god-awful reason, and they'd had to ventilate the entire flat to get rid of the smell. The stench still faintly lingered, but it was blunted by the smell of a rainy London night flowing in from the outside world.

John wasn't sure why, but he crossed to the windows to stand beside Sherlock a moment later, feeling the damp breeze against his face and closing his eyes. He didn't bother trying to imagine what Sherlock saw - there was no point. He'd never manage to encompass it all - and he enjoyed the mystery of never quite knowing, if he was perfectly honest. He glanced at Sherlock, who gave no indication of having noticed his arrival. That was hardly new.

On a whim, he reached out - much as he had before, on the sofa - and slid an arm around the detective's waist, drawing the man gently towards him. He was quietly pleased when an arm slid around his shoulder in response. Sherlock's eyes flicked sideways at him for half a moment before returning to whatever it was they'd been watching, but a small smile had replaced the neutral flat line of his mouth. John let his head drift to rest against the hollow of Sherlock's shoulder and smiled.


	3. I Want to Hold Your Hand

The first time Sherlock Holmes held his hand (that didn't involve being fugitives from the law), John Watson had been in a hospital bed.

Their case had been going well up until they'd cornered their suspect at the end of a balcony. He'd had nowhere left to go and John had thought he would surrender, but instead the man pulled a hunting knife out of seemingly nowhere, and lunged at Sherlock; who was – for once- caught off guard. John dove between them and tackled the man purely on instinct. He managed to avoid the knife, but the two of them tumbled over the railing of the balcony and landed heavily on the pavement, one floor below.

He knew he'd landed poorly when he heard the loud _crack_ and burning pain shot through his leg. The murderer he'd tackled had at least come off the worse and cracked his head open on a stone. John was fairly sure the man was dead, but the pain in his leg was strongly discouraging him from attempting to get up to check. He decided to leave that mess for Lestrade's team to clean up.

Sherlock was shouting and sprinting towards him, and he tried to grit his teeth and compose himself, knowing how Sherlock reacted whenever he put himself in danger. If he let himself panic, they'd both be a mess.

He tried to pretend he wasn't badly hurt, but he hissed with pain, in spite of himself, as Sherlock tried to help him up. Unable to get both legs to cooperate with him, he slumped back down, eyes squeezed tightly shut and struggled to push back the dots that had danced before his eyes when he tested his leg. When he was able to open his eyes again, Sherlock's were wide and staring at him and his expression was approaching frantic. John was feebly trying to reassure him when Scotland Yard swept onto the scene.

* * *

Lestrade recognized a bad situation at a glance and didn't ask any questions that were not directly related to 'are you alright' and 'do you need a lift to the hospital'. Even Donovan refrained from comment over the dead man when she noticed Sherlock's face. Anderson, unfortunately, failed to recognize the danger signs and made a poor attempt at a snarky dig. He was verbally eviscerated with extreme prejudice while John was being carefully lifted between two officers and eased into the back of a police cruiser. Sherlock joined him shortly after, muttering darkly. Neither officer knew what to do with him, and flagged down the DI in terror.

Lestrade held a brief and quiet conversation with the driver, which John guessed amounted mostly to 'don't talk, don't make eye contact, just drop them off and come back'. Given the circumstances, it was probably for the best. The trip to the A&E was silent aside from the continued swearing and grumbling coming from the seat beside him.

* * *

Despite the small scene Sherlock Holmes made in the waiting room, they'd been seen fairly quickly. To John's infinite relief, the break was a clean one, and easily set. He was in a plaster cast within an hour, and Sherlock had more or less left off with the swearing, though he was still grumbling thunderously under his breath. John caught bits and pieces here and there. Largely it consisted of '_if he hadn't killed himself, I'd have done it for him_' and '_what the hell were you **thinking**?!' _in various forms.

Given he'd fallen off of a balcony and collided with a stone courtyard, the doctors had insisted on keeping him overnight for observation, but he was assured (as if he didn't already know) that this was purely a precaution and they had no cause for worry. The biggest trouble began when they tried to usher Sherlock out, and he stared the poor orderly down with eyes that could've cut glass.

It was technically after visiting hours, but all attempts to remove Sherlock from the room were failing miserably. The intimidated staff never stood a chance against the cutting sarcasm, stony face, and ice-cold eyes of Sherlock Holmes in a bad mood. John finally intervened and explained that Sherlock was his partner, in the most ambiguous of terms, and it was left at that. Sherlock stayed and the doctors gratefully left them alone.

* * *

John drifted out from a pleasant haze of painkillers and dreamless sleep to find the he couldn't move his right hand. Startled and a bit alarmed, he snapped his eyes open and jerked halfway upright before realizing a sleeping detective was clutching it; face down on crossed arms beside the bed. John stared at him.

"How's your leg?" Sherlock's muffled voice emerged as his disheveled curly head came up. His eyes locked onto John's, but the hand was not relinquished.

"Fine… I mean it hurts like a bastard, but it'll do that." He shrugged as well as he could with one hand pinned to the bed. "Better than getting shot, that's for sure."

He realized as he said it that this was not helpful. Sherlock actually winced.

"Kindly don't do either again."

"Not really planning on it. Don't almost get stabbed next time, and I'll have more choice in the matter."

"I would have handled him." Sherlock grumbled, still clutching John's hand tightly. John wasn't completely convinced the detective still remembered he was holding it at all. "You didn't need to fling yourself at him. …You could've been killed." The tone was petulant and irritable, but there was worry buried under it, and John saw it as clear as day.

"You don't like me jumping off balconies; I don't like you jumping off buildings." He shrugged again. "I wasn't about to take the chance he'd get a lucky hit. You can't tell me you wouldn't do the same thing."

Sherlock didn't answer him, but glared at the floor as if it had somehow wronged him. He didn't _hav_e an answer for that and they both knew it.

"Never do it again."

"I'm _not_ promising you that. If you're in danger, I'm doing what I have to to neutralize it. End of story."

"Please." John almost winced at the pressure on his hand. He was pretty sure now, that Sherlock had forgotten it was there. "Don't. If anyone is going to get hurt, let it be me. Don't put yourself in danger trying to protect me. Just don't."

John flexed his fingers and the pressure on them vanished. Blessed circulation returned.

"Sherlock." John pinned him in place with his eyes. "Listen to me, because I'm not going to repeat myself again. You would do the same damned thing, and you know it. I will protect you, if I can, and you will just have to stop throwing yourself into stupidly dangerous situations unless you want me right along with you. If we went right back out on that balcony right now, I would do the exact same thing. I lost you once because you were trying to protect me. I will _never_ let that happen again. You're stuck with me watching your back for the rest of your life. Get used to it."

Sherlock fidgeted, but didn't answer.

"Now can we get the hell out of here? I'm dying for a cup of tea, and I know the stuff around here is shit."

Sherlock couldn't resist a hint of a smile.

"I'll ring Mrs. Hudson to put the kettle on, shall I?"

"Don't you dare tell her what happened to my leg or she'll kill us both."

"Oh, of course." Sherlock threw up his hand in exasperation. "You'll tackle a man with a knife off of a balcony and lecture me about accepting the risk, but a five-foot-nothing old woman scolding you… THAT you're afraid of." He rolled his eyes and John couldn't help but laugh.

"You're terrified of her too and you know it."

Sherlock handed over the clothes that John guessed either Lestrade or Mycroft had sent from their flat, and went to harass a nurse into delivering the exit paperwork and a promised set of crutches to the room while John got changed.


	4. At Ease, Soldier

It had been a slow day, coming off of a lengthy case. He'd managed to force a plate of spaghetti into Sherlock the night before, and the post-case let-down hadn't yet kicked in; which would make Sherlock a holy-terror to live with until the next 'interesting' murder came along. The detective himself was sprawled out across the sofa, as usual. He had one arm tossed back over the arm-rest his head leaned against, and the other languidly drooped onto the floor. He was, as usual, lost in thought.

John had just emerged from the bathroom in nothing but trousers, bare feet padding quietly on the carpeting. He'd raided a basket of clean laundry that had been abandoned in the hall a few days prior, but it had been mostly Sherlock's things. He'd found little that belonged to him aside from a few pair of underwear and one old pair of worn out blue jeans. He'd slipped into the jeans, planning to finish getting dressed upstairs, but Sherlock's eyes flicked to him the moment he came into view and remained fastened on him as he passed.

"… What?" He paused self-consciously next to the sofa. Sherlock hadn't really ever gotten a good look at his scar before, but he was surprised that it would generate this much attention.

"You." Sherlock's eyes never left him. He felt like he was being appraised, but he wasn't sure exactly why. "You look… good."

John raised an eyebrow. "Thanks…?"

The grey eyes traveled curiously over his body again, and he wondered what they saw. Certainly more than just his stocky frame or the large puckered scar on his shoulder. Sherlock Holmes always saw more.

He waited for further explanation but none came. He decided he was feeling a bit daring today. _What the hell? I've always wanted to…_

He knelt between Sherlock's sprawled legs on the sofa, waiting for some kind of signal to proceed or back off, but he got no feedback at all. _Fine then. Since you don't seem to mind…_ He pushed himself forward, catching himself on either side of Sherlock's skinny ribs and settled down, head resting on Sherlock's chest, feet resting on the opposite arm-rest. It was surprisingly comfortable, though most of the man's body was made up almost entirely of sharp angles. He seemed to fit against the slender body as if he'd been designed for this very purpose. It was nice. He shivered as an unexpected hand slid delicately down the length of his spine.

"I take it this is ok then?"

Sherlock shot him an incredulous look, lifting his head off of the sofa to give him the full effect.

"John, what part of my being in love with you has failed to register? You are currently half naked, and you are lying on top of me. _Yes_, this is quite 'ok'."

John couldn't help himself, he laughed at that. Sherlock glared indignantly at him, but he couldn't stop.

"I'm- I'm sorry." He managed after a few moments, grateful that Sherlock hadn't shoved him off after the first few moments of hysterical giggling. "It's just… I never would've expected to hear _that_ out of _you_!" He rested his chin on his hands, layered on top of each other in the middle of Sherlock's chest and tried not to shake himself onto the floor with repressed laughter.

Sherlock rolled his eyes, but he was losing the battle not to smile too.

"And I wouldn't have expected a man as … experienced… as yourself" John flushed self-consciously "to be so incredibly dense about such things." He studied John's face for a few moments. "It shouldn't surprise you to know that I am attracted to you. I don't see why it does."

"Because… " John foundered helplessly, trying to marshal his thoughts into something resembling coherent sentences.. "I… I guess I never thought… you thought about me like that…"

Sherlock rolled his eyes again, even more dismissively, if that was possible.

"Would it have been easier to identify if flung myself at you like a drunken teenager?" He looked distinctly irritated to be having this conversation.

"Yes, but that would have been terrifying."

John tried to picture Sherlock drunk, but he just couldn't do it. Drugged, sure, but drunk… that was just an odd picture. He wondered vaguely if Sherlock would still deduce people if he were plastered. The answer was probably, unfortunately, yes. He'd just do it louder and with even less discretion than usual.

"Then do shut up and let me enjoy this, hm?"

Given that half of Sherlock's fingers were experimentally massaging the back of his neck, while the others continued to trace lightly up and down his back, John found it incredibly easy to accommodate this. He pushed back the contented little groan as the persistent knot between his shoulders succumbed to Sherlock's attention. Yes, he could certainly shut up and enjoy. That would not be a problem.


	5. Not in the Kitchen!

**_Author's Note: Yes, it's –_that– _first time. Feel free to skip it if you're not interested, but I'll try not to be too graphic. This WILL be in character. It spans the next 3 chapters, so click through the next three if you want to skip it._**

_**(If you're hoping for Johnlock porn, I have to disappoint you, I'm afraid. This is romantic sexy-time. Not just screwing each-other senseless).**_

* * *

John was only mildly surprised to find Sherlock standing right behind him when he turned around to fetch the last of the groceries he'd left on the counter. He had been focused on carefully avoiding the jar of intestines on the lower shelf, and hadn't been listening for cat-footed detectives to come slipping up behind him. Still, invasion of personal space was pretty standard for Sherlock Holmes, so he didn't think much of it.

"I'm not moving your experiments around, so you can stop staring at me. I remember last time." He reached past Sherlock to pick up a carton of milk and a package of deli cheese. "I could not _possibly_ forget the unholy smell that made."

He finished cautiously loading the items into the refrigerator and ducked past Sherlock, who had yet to say a word, but followed him relentlessly with his eyes. "Really, I don't know what-" He made it no further before he found himself pressed against a wall with Sherlock's mouth pressed firmly against his, and he wasn't entirely sure what was going on, aside from that he didn't completely mind. Mostly he was extremely confused.

"Mmph-" He pushed Sherlock away, well aware that he was breathing a little harder than was probably totally decent. "What… what are you doing?"

"I _was_ attempting to snog you. I thought that was fairly _obvious_." Sherlock's voice sounded huskier than usual. John noticed for the first time the odd look in his eyes, the flush in his cheeks_. Oh. Oh..._

"Don't take this the wrong way but… uh… how far exactly… were you planning to take that snogging?"

Sherlock looked mildly offended.

"Is this something you normally ask people, or just me?"

"It's just… I've never… we've never… I thought you'd ask… before.-" He wasn't entirely sure where he was going with this. Somehow it had just felt too sudden, too abrupt. He didn't want the first time he ever had with a bloke to feel like an assault. Even if it _was_ Sherlock, he still needed a little time acclimate his brain to this.

"Ah." Sherlock backed off slightly and started pacing. That hadn't been mentioned in any of the material he'd read on this... but perhaps his sources were flawed. He decided that John likely knew more about all of this than he did, research or no, so he'd bow to that knowledge. He found himself standing near the entry door of the flat, and pushed it closed absently. "In that case… I'm asking."

John stared at him. He wasn't sure if Sherlock completely understood what he was doing. He was fairly certain the man didn't remotely understand the etiquette that was involved, at any rate. He decided to just let it go, odd delivery or not. There was effort. That counted for something.

"Look…just… Take it slow… and… ok." It did nothing to settle his mind when Sherlock clicked the door lock home the moment the words were out of his mouth.

"I assumed you would prefer privacy. Mrs. Hudson is out for the afternoon, but … plans do change now and then." Sherlock was openly teasing him now. John glared half-heartedly.

"Don't be a smart-arse, or I'm revoking permission to get snoggy."

Sherlock rolled his eyes, sweeping back into the kitchen."Dear god, John, _don't_ invent nonsense words." John watched him, noticing even more than ever, his resemblance to a cat. The long lean lines, the predatory eyes, and the silky self-assurance- it was all there. "Hasn't the English language suffered enough?"

He wasn't entirely sure how Sherlock managed to make that sound seductive… but somehow he'd managed.

* * *

He quickly found himself pressed into the wall again, Sherlock's torso flush against him. Lips strayed gradually down his jaw and hovered gently over his collar-bone. He groaned in spite of himself. _Where the hell had he learned this? The man had never even had __**friends**__ before…_

He barely registered the unbuttoning of his shirt until he felt it sliding off of him. His jumper had already been claimed immediately after Sherlock's return to the kitchen. _Alright… two can play at that..._

A few moments later, they stood, inches apart, shirtless and staring uncertainly at each other, breathing raggedly. Neither of them really knew how to take the lead, both hoping the other would.

John tried, but his mind was pleasantly fuzzy around the edges, and despite his best efforts to force it into focus, it would offer him only one coherent thought: _Not in the kitchen._

He pulled Sherlock's face down to meet him and snogged him soundly.

"Your room. Now."

They left the discarded clothes where they were as Sherlock practically dragged him down the hallway. He wasn't sure if he was more aroused or terrified, but so far it looked like a dead-heat.


	6. What You've Been Missing

They'd tumbled onto the bed, barely bothering to shut the door. Sherlock let him take over willingly, and John quickly found the experience less intimidating than expected. Really, it wasn't all that different from being with a woman… except for the obvious thing poking at his leg… He brushed against it with two fingers and was rewarded with a sharp intake of breath. _So… Sherlock's body responded just like anyone else's. Good to know._

John pressed him back into the pillows, gasping involuntarily as a hand brushed across the front of his trousers in response. Sherlock smirked up at him before busying himself exploring John's torso in excruciating detail. _Of course. Of __**course**__ Sherlock would be actively studying him and learning as they went. Because that wouldn't make this awkward __**at all**_**. **He supposed he shouldn't be surprised. That sort of thing was simply to be expected, if you were going to get in bed with someone like Sherlock Holmes…

John's mind briefly whited-out into un-namable, but pleasant sensations when Sherlock's fingers grazed lightly over his scar. It didn't hurt anymore, but damned if it wasn't sensitive. The fingers paused at his reaction and trailed lazily back across the spot. He twitched. He could practically hear the information being filed away for later use.

He leaned in to kiss the man, hard, before Sherlock could distract him again, catching both of the detective's arms and pinning them to the pillows above his head. It was his turn to explore, and dammit he wanted to enjoy it.

He noticed the squirming as he trailed his lips over Sherlock's jaw and returned his attention there. Sherlock's entire body tremored. He got a similar reaction when he ran gentle fingers over Sherlock's bony hip. He started to trail his fingers lower, but the next thing he knew, he'd been pushed onto his back and Sherlock was on top of him. A firm hand found its way down the front of his trousers. His head fell back and his brain abruptly gave up on thinking and melted into a puddle of molten nothingness.

He bucked his hips involuntarily, dimly able to enjoy the half-startled, half lustful gasp Sherlock made. He forced one of the hands twining and untwining itself in Sherlock's hair to move downward, sliding between them. Sherlock's rhythm faltered. John cracked an eye open, breath heaving, and marveled. The pale lean body above him was arched like a bow, head thrown back, long white throat curving gracefully in between. He didn't think he'd ever seen anything so incredible in his life.

At least until Sherlock recovered himself enough to resume what he'd been doing, and then he was again incapable of thinking anything at all.

* * *

Sherlock was flopped bonelessly on top of him, both of them breathing like they'd just run a marathon. One of John's hands was still coiled in Sherlock's hair, the other lay limply dropped onto the mattress where it had previously been clutching giant puckers into the bedding. John wasn't sure he was capable of moving yet. He wasn't even sure he was capable of thinking. He was exhausted, but he felt incredible.

"I had no idea…" Sherlock's voice reached him, breathy and a slightly hoarse. "No idea…"

"You've never…?" There was no non-awkward way to phrase that question. "Y'know…"

"No." Sherlock must've been flying high on the endorphins, because he didn't even sound annoyed at the vagueness of the question. "I've never experienced any of… that… before. And to think…" He paused re-catching his breath, "-I was using bloody _morphine_. This would have been so much easier!"

John couldn't help himself. He laughed until his sides hurt. Leave it to Sherlock Holmes to turn a fantastic shag into a science experiment. He wondered what it said about his sanity that he found that endearing, rather than disturbing. … Probably nothing good, but _who bloody __**cared**_?


	7. Hit the Showers

John was enjoying just lying there, holding Sherlock against him, and coming down from the rush of everything they'd just done, but he was keenly aware of the stickiness that was seeping into his clothes; and the longer they lay there, the colder it was going to get. He needed to clean up, or he was going to feel disgusting in short order.

"Alright you - up." He nudged Sherlock who just rolled sideways and flopped over next to him, still doing a fine impression of a plate of Jell-O. John wrestled his arm out from under the inert lump of detective. "You'll feel like shit if you let that soak in, and it'll make a mess of your trousers." Sherlock grunted at him and lazily wriggled out of his trousers, pitching them at the overflowing hamper beside the door.

"Not quite what I had in mind, Sherlock. Come on."He grabbed the taller man under the arms and hoisted him half upright. "Afterglow or not, you should wash up. Might as well join me in the shower." At that, Sherlock perked up slightly. "But don't you even _think_ about trying that again today. I'll be jelly-legged all night already." Sherlock pouted and started to slouch back down, but John gave him a push and got him onto his feet. "If ever you want to do this again, I suggest you don't make me regret doing it in the first place, Sherlock."

That got him a glare, but Sherlock remained obediently standing. He stripped down out of the last remaining layer of his clothing with scarcely a blink and strode, stark naked, to fetch his bathrobe off the back of the door and headed for the bathroom. John tried not to stare, startled. Granted, he'd had his hands all over Sherlock, but most of that had been through a layer or two of fabric. Getting the full picture was… different. He wasn't complaining, but it was still startling. Still, it didn't take him long to follow suit.

* * *

After the shower, Sherlock was very much himself again. He dressed without further comment, though John noticed the appreciative glance he got when he passed the doorway in nothing but a khaki towel. By the time John returned, fully dressed in fresh clothing, Sherlock was sprawled out on the sofa, impeccably dressed as always, apparently organizing the whole experience in his mind palace.

John started a kettle for tea. He made a full pot and got down two mugs, but only filled one. Sherlock might be a while.


	8. Not at the Crime Scene!

The lecture about inappropriate displays of affection at crime scenes was possibly the most embarrassing thing that had ever happened to John Watson.

It wasn't fair, it really wasn't. He hadn't even _done_ anything. Sherlock had been the one who'd suddenly taken it upon himself, apparently hopped up on adrenaline from the thrill of the chase, to grab him by the front of his jacket and snog him right in front of Lestrade. Fortunately, the rest of the normal Scotland Yard team had been elsewhere on the scene and he'd been spared their horror-stricken stares, but he couldn't look Gregory Lestrade in the eye for weeks afterwards.

"Look, I always sort of assumed you two had some kind of… -something going on." Lestrade glanced between them. Sherlock ignored him with his very finest bored grimace. "But you can't… _carry on_ at my bloody crime scene!"

John rubbed tiredly at his forehead. They'd been hurriedly pulled aside, behind a police car and quietly berated.

"Can I just point out…I didn't _do_ anything. Why am I being bawled out, exactly?"

"Because you're a unit, whether you like it or not." Lestrade grumbled, but there was a faintly sympathetic note hidden in it. The '_you're stuck with him' _was implied.

Lestrade's eyes fell on Sherlock, who was still ignoring the whole situation imperiously. "You. No snogging, no …touching… no -just… none of whatever it is you do at _home_. In _private._" Sherlock didn't bother acknowledging this. Lestrade leaned in; voice lowered so only Sherlock could hear him. "If nothing else, don't do this to John. You're freaking him out, and it's not fair." Sherlock glared at him. "He trusts you, and he'd follow you damned near anywhere. Don't abuse that. You'll regret it." Sherlock didn't argue. The point was made.

There was never another incident after that.


	9. When Harry Met Sherlock

The first time Sherlock met Harry was… interesting. Harry had been suspicious of the man for over a year, John's reassurances aside. While she antagonized her brother to no end, she was fiercely protective of him, and she wasn't about to let some crazy bugger with a possibly criminal record at him. She had insisted on visiting this particular weekend with the intention of giving the infamous detective a piece of her mind.

Sherlock simply disliked Harry on principle. Harry was usually the slurred, obnoxious voice on the other end of the phone when John looked tired and pinched the bridge of his nose that certain way. Harry was the reason John had to go out of town every now and again - trying vainly to force her to clean herself up and function like a grown woman. Harry was responsible for the frustrated sighs at Christmas, the prolonged, uncharacteristic silences after a loud blow-out row with her on the phone. Harry was taking up far too much of John's time and attention, and Sherlock wasn't going to stand for it.

It started the instant she crossed the threshold of 221B.

Sherlock called her 'The Infamous Sister' pointedly ignored her request for tea while he served himself and John, and refused to use her name. It was only after a disgruntled glare from John that he reverted to the (slightly) less offensive 'Ms. Watson'. Harry retaliated by referring to him as 'that daft git you insist on shacking up with'. She made a point of stealing his mug and draining it the moment he set it down. John was ready to throttle the both of them.

* * *

"Tell me, Ms. Watson, how long _has_ it been since you've passed out in a drunken haze? John's not been out to Dublin in… oh 3 months or so." The cold, almost-polite smile on his face was predatory. John glared between the two of them to no avail.

"Jumped off any good buildings lately, Mr. Holmes?" She and her brother could've passed for twins at the moment, between the short cropped hair and the thunderous scowling. She sipped the tea that John had prepared for her when Sherlock refused.

"I considered it when you arrived, just to spare myself the boredom; but John has asked that I not repeat that performance. I do at least attempt to respect his wishes." John snorted at that, but was, of course, ignored.

"I've been dry for a year." Harry responded. Her dignity was a little too brittle. Sherlock's smirk widened.

"Six months."

"A _year_."

"Six months. Assuming you don't count that indiscretion the other day, and I'm assuming you don't."

"I had one-"

"Three."

"BOTH OF YOU KNOCK IT OFF!"

To his credit, Sherlock merely flinched. Harriet startled so hard she fell off the sofa and ended up wearing half of her tea.

* * *

"You two… HONESTLY." John paced, throwing his hands up in frustration. "Can't you just sit down and drink a cup of tea without having a pissing contest?!"

Harry opened her mouth to protest, but shut it quickly when his glare fell on her. Sherlock shrugged, 'she started it' practically written across his face.

"Both of you, sit down, at least pretend you have the manners of a five year old, and drink your damned tea!"

* * *

John took his sister outside 'for a walk'. The attempt at forcing them to have tea civilly had failed miserably when they'd started simply glaring daggers at each other in silence. Sherlock looked a bit put-out not to be invited, but John wouldn't be surprised if he'd was picking apart a human brain on the counter when they got back, if for no other reason than to traumatize Harry. This was his life. He supposed he'd better just accept it.

"What the hell do you _see_ in that bastard?!" Harry hissed, hugging her jacket around herself as they rounded the corner at the end of the street. "I'm about ready to-"

"I love him." John interrupted her, not in the mood for this. "It's the same reason I put up with you, if you must know."

She glared at him.

"I am not anywhere near as bad as-"

"Yes you are. And he's just as bad as you. You're a regular pair, the both of you."

A short irritated silence followed.

"Look… Johnny… I get that I'm a pain in your ass sometimes. You're a good brother. You are. But that's why I can't… I don't want you getting hurt by some asshole boyfriend." For Harry, it was a remarkably sincere and thoughtful statement. "And if ever _does _hurt you, you tell me. I'll knock his block off."

"I was in bloody _Afghanistan_, Harry." He had to smile. "I can handle him."

Harry stopped him as they passed through the park, one hand on his shoulder.

"Johnny…" She held his gaze for a long moment, carefully forming her thoughts. "I know... -I know you can handle yourself. But you shouldn't have to treat your love-life like a warzone. Nobody should." John chose not to point out the irony of someone who'd had as many stormy relationships as his sister offering this advice. "You remember what he did to you a year or two ago, right? That's _messed up_, John."

"I explained all of this to you on the phone, Harry. He didn't have a choice. It was ugly, but it's over. Besides, if he ever did that to me again, I'd kill him myself."

"Yeah, well… just be careful. He seems like a right arrogant dick to me."

"Yeah, he is. But he's also a wonderful, brilliant, thoughtful dick. Don't ask me why, but we fit together like we were built for each other."

"God, Johnny! GROSS!"

"Ugh, I didn't mean- Jesus, Harry, get your mind out of the gutter!" He massaged the bridge of his nose in frustration. It had taken the conversation a whopping 5 minutes to crash and burn. That had to be a new record. "I meant our personalities. God, you're a bloody pervert!"

* * *

Sherlock had apparently settled on dismantling a sheep stomach on the kitchen table instead of a human brain, but the results were roughly the same. He'd clearly taken care to spread the mess throughout as much of the kitchen as possible. Harry clearly wanted to retch, and it was only force of will that kept her from it. She went home shortly after, though John did try half-heartedly to convince her to stay for a dinner out.

* * *

"Are you proud of yourself? You scared the shit out of my sister."

"Did I?"

"Yes."

"Mmm… thought she was made of sterner stuff. You've certainly never minded."

"Wha- ?… do you just delete anything inconvenient to-? why would you-? - Of COURSE I minded! I just got used to it. Honestly-"

"Don't stammer, John, it's unbecoming on you."

"Sherlock-"

"Your sister is far less obnoxious than I expected."

"… What?"

"She _is_ still quite obnoxious, no question, but on a scale of Mycroft to 10, she's at least a 5."

"Uh huh…." John couldn't decide if Sherlock was apologizing, making excuses, or simply trying to needle him.

"I do believe your sister would in fact make good on her threat to 'knock my block off' should I step out of line. Admirable intention, even if she'd probably be far too inebriated to actually land a punch." John quirked an eyebrow at him. He supposed he shouldn't be remotely surprised Sherlock had eavesdropped on them, or perhaps his brother's cronies had. Another unfortunate side-effect of being involved with Sherlock Holmes.

"I like your sister rather more than expected. Perhaps we should have her for tea again sometime."

John practically shouted 'NO'.


	10. Christmas Cheer pt 1- Meeting the Family

John sighed for probably the hundredth time, tapping his fingers awkwardly on the arm of his chair. He couldn't believe he'd let Sherlock talk him into this.

Yet another chilly, pinched-faced aunt approached, sizing him up like a side of beef. He tried to put on a polite smile and make conversation, but she merely snorted at him, apparently dissatisfied with whatever she saw, and drifted away again. He wondered how many glasses of wine it would take to erase this evening from his memory forever…

* * *

"Having fun?" Sherlock had materialized beside the chair, quietly offering him a hot mug of something that smelled like a mix of cider and paint-thinner. He accepted it gratefully.

"Your relatives hate me."

Sherlock shrugged noncommittally. "They hate everyone."

"That one actually told me to piss off." John glanced at the portly great-uncle currently scowling into his drink beside the fire. He was beginning to see where Sherlock's elastic facial expressions came from.

"Oh, that means he likes you, actually." Sherlock remarked lightly, making himself comfortable with a disgustingly easy grace on the richly upholstered ottoman next to the chair. "Assuming he didn't follow up with '-and rot in hell, you skeevey bastard'. That's usually how he greets Auntie Cora..."

"Ah." John didn't think he really wanted to know any more about that. "Remind me why we couldn't just spend Christmas at the flat?"

"Because Mycroft is insufferable if I don't at least put in an appearance, and I've been informed 'the family' wanted to meet you."

"Yeah, well, they could've fooled me. Seems more like they wish I'd go jump in front of a bus…"

"No one's actually attempted to have you killed, and I've been told I could do worse… Which is actually rather high praise for my selection of a partner. I think they're rather taken with you."

"… Your family terrifies me."

"John, you _have_ met my brother, haven't you? Why do you think he's such a twat?"

* * *

"You're John, are you?"

A tiny, ancient looking woman had appeared at his elbow after Sherlock had pushed him out into the room to 'mingle', at Mycroft's (likely blackmail-laced) insistence. He was too used to Sherlock Holmes to be startled by her.

"John Watson, ma'am. Very pleased to meet you. " He held out a hand to her, which she glanced at critically for a few moments and then promptly ignored.

"Don't see why you should be, you've no idea who I am." She sized him up shrewdly with the same startling grey eyes that Sherlock had, and he began to wonder if staggering intelligence and utter social ineptitude was just a family trait. "But I see why he likes you." She studied his face for a few moments, then nodded, apparently satisfied.

"Sit with me." She turned around abruptly, without waiting for an answer, and started briskly towards a small cluster of chairs beside yet another cheerful fireplace across the room. John sighed and obeyed, snagging another mug of whatever hot liquor-filled beverage was going around on the way. He had the feeling he'd need it.

* * *

"Wilhelmina Holmes." was all the explanation he got when he caught up to her, already seated comfortably in a huge wingback chair beside the fire. She gestured him to the seat opposite and folded her hands neatly beneath her chin. "Sherlock is my great-nephew. I'm very fond of him, you understand."

John nodded hesitantly. He didn't understand at all why this was relevant, but he was fairly sure he was simply meant to acknowledge and keep his mouth shut.

"Now, as I understand it from Mycroft, you've been living with my nephew for the past 6 years, give or take a year for his 'death'." John nearly choked on his drink mid-sip at the casual way she said it, as if her nephew dying and coming back to life a year later was a routine occurrence. She didn't appear to notice as he sputtered and coughed, awkwardly setting the mug aside. "And I am given to understand that you have entered into a relationship of a more _romantic_ nature, as of late. Am I correct?"

John had noticed early in the evening that no one in the family thought it remotely odd that Sherlock's chosen mate was a man. Thinking about it, he supposed he shouldn't be surprised. It might have taken him ages to figure Sherlock out, but these people had known the man his entire life. They would certainly know that women were '_not his area_'.

He pounded his chest briefly, trying to ensure he didn't choke again, before answering.

"Yes- … yes ma'am."

"And you care for my nephew a great deal, do you not?" John nodded. Of _course_ he did, or he'd have run screaming into the hills years ago. He was disconcerted when she appeared to smile in response to the unspoken thought.

"I've read your blog, Dr. Watson, and my dear Mycroft has been so kind as to provide me with a good deal of the information you leave out of it." She smiled serenely, and John felt a brief flash of pity for the elder Holmes brother. "I'll be honest with you, John. I like you. You seem like a good man, and I approve of your taking such good care of my Sherlock. I haven't seen him so happy nor so well fed since he was six years old." A faint slip of the mask, and John thought he saw a glimmer of real affection on her face. It was gone again just as quickly. "As long as you continue to be good for my nephew, I will be very pleased. If you were ever to _hurt _him…" She glanced pointedly at him. John got the message.

"If I ever hurt him, you'll kill me. That about the sum total, Ms. Holmes?" John almost rolled his eyes but thought better of it. All that build up for the old '_hurt my baby and I hurt you'_ speech. He'd heard it from every over-protective parent of every girl he'd ever dated and it was getting rather old at this point.

Wilhelmina smiled, almost genuine, apparently pleased that he'd cottoned on so readily.

"That's about the 'sum total', yes."

"Then you can save your threats." He stood up, keeping his voice low, though he felt more than a little offended. "I take care of Sherlock for his sake, not because Mycroft is playing big-bad-wolf over my shoulder, and not because I've got something to prove to his great-aunt. If he gets hurt, you coming after me will be the very last thing I worry about."

He turned on his heel to walk away.

"Good. Very good." Wilhelmina was smiling broadly when he glanced back at her. "Oh I do like you, Dr. Watson. I like you quite well. Good evening." She was on her feet and vanishing into the crowd of suits and tasteful black cocktail dresses a moment later.

* * *

"Your family is _still_ bloody terrifying"

Sherlock glanced up at him with a hint of an amused smirk. The detective had finally made the full round of the room and been allowed hole up in a corner with a drink and a book, ignoring everyone as happily as they were now ignoring him.

"Auntie Willie likes you, I hear. She's telling everyone so."

"Yes, we met."

"And you're not in tears. I'm impressed."

"Shut up."

"I mean it." Sherlock's head tipped up briefly, meeting his eyes. "The last time Mycroft introduced her to someone she had them sobbing in a corner inside of 10 minutes."

"Dear god, Sherlock, what the _hell_ is wrong with your family?!" John hissed, trying to keep his voice down.

Sherlock shrugged, turning the page of his book.

"She didn't like him, I suppose."


	11. Christmas Cheer pt 2- Mummy

John stamped the cold out of his feet, wishing he'd thought to bring a scarf or a hat. He hadn't expected to be walking through a small private cemetery nestled at the back of the Holmes family estate, nor standing in a thick layer of new snow. Sherlock wanted to introduce him to his parents.

* * *

The two tower-like headstones were tall and white; polished marble gleaming in the faint light from the path markers. Sherlock stood in front of them in silence. His gloved hand brushed gently across the one of the left. _Victoria Holmes. _'Mummy', John guessed.

The one on the right got a cursory glance and little else. _Octavius Holmes. _That would be the father then. It didn't take staggering powers of deduction to see Sherlock had not been close to his father.

"Mummy… Father." John took his hand without being asked. Sherlock clung to it gratefully. "This is John."

John wasn't sure if he was expected to speak to the headstones, so he chose to stay silent unless prompted. He felt he'd already spent more than enough time talking to headstones for one lifetime.

Sherlock's attention was now wholly focused on his mother's grave.

"You always said you wished I had a friend, Mother. I never seemed to have to tell you what I needed… you always knew. You told me to bring him 'round to meet you, when I found the right one." Sherlock's shoulders began to shake. He was doing his best to fight back the troublesome sentiment that was trying to claw its way out of him. "I found him, Mother. I wish you were here to meet him in person. You'd like John." A trembling breath and he was back in control of himself.

Sherlock's eyes grew hard and cold as they shifted to the other stone and John would've sworn the air-temperature dropped by at least 10 degrees.

"And _you_ were wrong." Venom seasoned with years of resentment laced Sherlock's voice. "Unsurprising, as you were _always_ wrong. About everything." He spat the words like they were acid on his tongue. "'_Nobody will ever love you'_, that's what you told us. '_Freak of nature'_-" John slid an arm around Sherlock's waist and felt the man startle sharply. Sherlock's body went rigid for a moment before his weight slumped heavily into John's side. Sherlock's eyes were screwed shut; his face was twisted with unspoken pain and anger as it came to rest against John's shoulder. The heated fury seemed to have evaporated out of him.

"So… Daddy was a bit of a prick, I take it?" John ventured after a few moments of silence. He was going for humor, but the words fell flat. Sherlock didn't answer him.

He tried again. "What was your Mum like? Sounds a little like Mrs. Hudson…"

Sherlock let out a long tired breath.

"She was…"

_Well that explained a lot..._

* * *

Sherlock's account of his mother, as they walked back towards the enormous manor-house, reminded John strongly of an adoring 3 year-old trying to write a Mother's Day card. 'Mummy' had always known what to say to her sons, always comforted her youngest when he couldn't understand why the other children hit him, stole his books, or scrawled insults on his desk. She had explained to him that whatever he felt, whoever he felt it for, it was ok. It was all ok. Sherlock had clearly loved her the more for it.

She'd understood, without being told, that her son was different. She'd coached him through a difficult childhood as best she could, and Sherlock had been utterly devastated when she'd suddenly passed away the year he entered high-school. He'd been left to an apparently abusive, obviously homophobic father and an absentee brother - though, to Mycroft's credit, it sounded like he had at least _tried_ to protect his younger brother from the world the best he knew how… which was 'poorly'… but the thought was there, at any rate.

In retrospect, John was actually more surprised that Sherlock had waited until uni to start abusing the drugs, than that he'd started at all. He wasn't sure he could've made it that long without some kind of relief or support, himself.

* * *

They didn't bother with going back inside when they reached the house, but headed straight for the car that waited in the long circle-drive, situated grandly in front of the property. The driver sat fiddling with his phone behind the wheel, utterly unaware of their presence yet.

"Sherlock…" Ahead of him, the detective paused, almost as if he dreaded whatever was going to come next. "… Your dad _was_ wrong." He thought about it for a moment. "And a bastard."

Sherlock didn't respond, and his back remained turned.

"To think nobody would love someone like you… man had to be a bloody idiot." Sherlock's head drooped slightly, but he gave no other indication that he'd heard.

John sighed. Sherlock was obviously not listening. He heard what he wanted to hear when he got into a mood like this. John was having none of it. He reached out, taking Sherlock's unresisting hand again and pulling the man around to face him.

"Look."

He held up their intertwined hands. "You see this? You think I walk around holding hands with just any old bloke off the street?" Sherlock's lips twitched with the barest suggestion of a wan smile. John took this as a signal to press on. "And you're a bloody fool if you think I've stayed in that flat with you 6 years just because the rent's good." He fixed his eyes on Sherlock's, willing him to understand. "Don't you _ever_ let that bollocks into your head again, do you hear me? You're a brilliant, arrogant sod, and I love you for it."

He was abruptly pulled into a tight embrace, standing awkwardly under a frost-laced arbor. Sherlock's face was buried in his shoulder.

"You're an idiot sometimes, you know that?" John patted his back affectionately. _Overgrown three-year old in a grown-man's body... Nothing new there_. "Bloody brilliant, but an idiot."

Sherlock snorted, but didn't let go of him just yet. John craned his neck awkwardly to kiss the man's ear, as it was the only thing he could reach. Sherlock twitched and pulled back, raising an eyebrow in mock irritation.

"Really John, that's _disgustingly_ sentimental."

"Yeah, well, I'll stop being soppy if you will. C'mon, I'm freezing. Let's get the hell out of here."

Neither of them noticed the wizened old lady watching them from an upstairs window with a very satisfied smile on her face as they rounded the house hand in hand, climbing into the car. She waited until it had pulled away, not missing the sight of her great-nephew leaning in to kiss his partner, apparently thinking they were away from prying eyes. She twitched the curtains closed, practically beaming, and quietly left the room.

_Oh yes, s_he decided, _she did __**quite**__ like Dr. Watson. _She liked him very, very much.


	12. Pillow

Sherlock reared back, falling backward off of John's bed in the dark. He'd very narrowly avoided being punched and John was staring at him open mouthed, if a little groggy. All in all, this may not have been one of his better plans. The small desk-lamp beside the bed clicked on.

"What the- … what the hell are you doing?!" John scruffed a hand through his hair and glanced at his alarm clock. It was 3 in the morning. "You can't startle me like that! I almost- what the _hell _were you doing?!"

Sherlock dithered, knowing it was wholly unlike himself, but he couldn't help it. What was the appropriate response when you tried to snuggle up to your partner in their bed and they woke up and nearly clobbered you?

"Jeezus…" John dropped his face into his hands for a moment and rubbed at his eyes. "Sherlock… I have PTSD. I'm diagnosed and everything. You just can't… you can't just sneak up on me like that." The sandy-blonde head came up. "Jeezus… Look I'm sorry I took a swing at you, but you can't-… Just… ugh." He dropped heavily back onto the bed. It was too damned early for this. He sighed, hands dropping against the covers. "What did you need?"

Sherlock muttered something at breakneck speed that he couldn't make out.

"Sorry, what-?"

"I was attempting to join you… for the night…" Sherlock repeated.

"… You …wanted to sleep? … With me? Actually sleep? In a bed?" John's propped himself up on his elbows. "Who are you and what have you done with Sherlock Holmes?"

"Don't try to be clever, John, it doesn't suit you."

"Right, well, now I don't feel very bad for you anymore. Funny that. Go sleep in your own bed." He dropped back into the pillows and rolled over to face the wall.

"Dull. I don't want to sleep in _my_ bed."

"I have work tomorrow and you already scared me half to death once tonight, so too bloody bad." John pointed at the door without turning his head. "Goodnight."

He supposed in retrospect that it was silly to have expected that to work.

* * *

"Get out of my bed, Sherlock."

"You punch like a three-year old schoolgirl, John. I'll be fine."

"Get. Out. Of. My. Bed."

"No."

John sighed, bracing his feet against the wall and shoved. Sherlock ended up on his rear on the floor for the second time.

"Good_night_, Sherlock."

* * *

John groaned as his bed-side lamp clicked on. This time, it was at 2 am.

"Wh- huh?"

"You asked me not to 'sneak up on' you."

"Sherlock, I'm _trying_ to sleep."

"Then move over."

"Let. Me. Sleep."

"Let. Me. In."

"Sod off." John clicked the lamp off and attempted to go back to sleep. The light was shining in his eyes again moments later.

_Son of a-_ "LOOK." John glared up at him. "Leave me alone and you can bloody sleep here tomorrow… I have the next day off. Ok?!"

It just wasn't fair.

* * *

Sherlock was actually waiting for him. He'd gone downstairs for a quick shower and brushed his teeth, only to find Sherlock Holmes sitting innocently on the end of his bed, already in his pajamas and reading a book, when he returned.

"No 3 am surprises tonight?"

"I have a formal invitation tonight."

"Mm..." John tossed his robe over the back of a chair and stretched. He usually slept in nothing but shorts and an undershirt, but he'd rummaged out a pair of grubby sweat-pants for the occasion, for modesty. He'd been planning to put them on just before bed, but Sherlock had arrived early. He glanced at them then shrugged. _Who bloody cares if he sees me in my underwear? It's not like anything we __**ever**__ do is remotely normal…_

He flicked back the covers.

"Come on, I'm knackered. And don't blame me if you get socked for poking me in the middle of the night."

"Again, John: school-girl."

"Shut up and get in here before I change my mind."

* * *

Sherlock had started out lying on his back on the other side of the bed, with at least six inches of empty space between them - John was fairly clear on that bit. After vainly attempting to remind Sherlock to behave and being cheerfully ignored, he'd turned out the light and rolled over to face into the room with his back to the other man. He remembered dozing off soon after, much like he did every night…

What he didn't remember was how they'd ended up twisted into a human knot of arms and legs, or when his head had ended up on Sherlock's chest. A bony chin rested on top of his head and he was fairly sure he heard uneven snoring coming from that general direction.

… Sherlock Holmes _snored_?

He considered getting up, but decided he didn't much feel like it. Sherlock had harassed him into giving up space in the bed, he'd just have to bloody-well live with it if he found the situation awkward when he woke up. John closed his eyes and pretended to sleep.

* * *

He supposed later that he shouldn't have been all that surprised when Sherlock's only reaction to their rather compromising looking position was to yawn and ask him if there would be tea soon.

"Either shut it and get out of my bed, or shut it and sit still like a good pillow. Your choice."

He was quite pleased when Sherlock chose the latter.


	13. Too Close For Comfort

It was the shaking, in the end, that drew his attention. Sherlock standing fixed, staring into space wasn't unusual. He did it constantly, especially after a particularly good case. To John's mind, this had been no exception.

But something in the posture was wrong. Sherlock wasn't gleefully cataloging whatever insights he'd gained. His back was rigid, his shoulders tense. A noticeable tremor shivered it's way up and down his body, making his hands clench and unclench in a jerky rhythm. His arms were crossed tightly over his chest, almost defensively - so rigid that it hurt just to look at them.

His already thin, angular face looked drawn, jaw tightly set, and heavy shadows chasing across it from the stormy afternoon outside.

John had seen panic attacks before. He'd had to talk down at least one patient who'd been triggered somehow under his care in Afghanistan. One had even drawn a gun on him... That had been a memorable night...

He'd suffered a few himself after his return from the war, but living with Sherlock had helped immensely, in its own bizarre way. Most of the time he was too busy running after the cyclone-in-human-form that was his flatmate to really have time to let things bother him. When the attacks happened now, they were mild, and over in a few minutes, if he remembered to breathe properly. He was fairly sure Sherlock had never even realized he still had them, and he had no plans to break that illusion.

John knew how to handle this sort of thing normally - or as normally as any PTSD situation could go, anyway - but... Sherlock was anything but normal. His brain was capable of things others simply weren't at the best of times. How he'd react to irrational panic was anyone's guess.

To make matters more complicated, John had no way of knowing what had triggered the attack, or what was going through the detective's head now. They'd have to take things in baby steps.

"Sherlock?"

No response. He hadn't really expected one, but he had to try.

"Sherlock, can you hear me?"

A faint noise in the back of the man's throat, but that could mean anything. He decided not to take it as an acknowledgement. _Right then. Moving on..._

Making a point move slowly and obviously - _no sudden movements_ - John made a production of noisily setting aside his computer, half-written blog post forgotten, and got to his feet.

_Never approach from behind._

He circled the long way around the room, passing behind the sofa to approach Sherlock Holmes from the front, hands up where they were clearly visible - in the least threatening pose he could manage.

_Do not startle or frighten the patient._

Sherlock still stood nearly motionless, half turned to the window. The weak sunlight filtering through the rain-sieged glass sent distorted shadows darting across his face. It only served to make the moment even more surreal.

"Sherlock? Do you know who I am?"

Glassy grey eyes stared blindly through him. _Apparently not..._

He slowly took a step forward. Then another. Then a few more. They were only a few feet apart, and Sherlock had not so much as flinched. Not good. Very not good...

"Sherlock Holmes, you need to listen to me. Just listen to my voice and focus on that. Focus on me. You are safe here. You're in a safe place. Whatever you're seeing now, it's not real. You're in London, 221B. With me. You just cracked a case, a tough one. Everything is ok. You're alright Sherlock. You're safe, and I'm here, and it's all ok." He'd often found restating important points helped with patients, even if it normally drove Sherlock mad to have anything repeated. This time, however, the man didn't appear to have even noticed him talking.

After several more moments of soothing prattling, he risked reaching out as slowly as he could to lay a gentle hand on the detective's arm. That, at least, got a reaction.

Sherlock recoiled as if he'd been burned, the instant John's fingertip brushed his elbow, backing up with a strangled half-scream, and stumbling into the desk behind him, nearly falling over it. He dropped, shaking and nearly hyperventilating, to his knees on the rug.

John forced himself to push through the horror that rose in him. Sherlock Holmes absolutely _did not_ make that noise. Had _never_ made that face. He _did not_ stumble unless drugged.

John just knew this would be nightmare material for the forseeable future, but then, he had a large and growing collection of that already. For now, however, he'd broken through the haze and it was time to guide Sherlock back out into the real world.

* * *

John had to gently untangle Sherlock's arms from in front of his face to make eye contact. The frantic grey eyes that met his were wild and darting, but they were no longer vacant. He knew Sherlock saw him now, but whether or not he'd be able to recognize John remained to be seen.

"Sherlock? It's John-"

"NO!" The thin arms abruptly wrenched out of his grip, thrown up protectively between them. John forced himself to stay perfectly still - _no sudden movements,_ he reminded himself - though the gesture made something in him ache.

"Sherlock, calm down. It's me. It's John. You know me. You know I'm not going to hurt you." The ache grew into a gnawing empty feeling in the pit of his stomach at the raw fear pouring off of Sherlock, who looked much much smaller and more fragile than he'd ever done; curled up on himself on the floor, shaking like a leaf.

"You're not- can't... No-" Dark curls whipped back and forth with the violent motion of denial. "Not John- can't be- "

"Why can't I be?" John's voice was soft, as gentle as if he were speaking to a frightened toddler... which he supposed wasn't far from the truth, if he were being honest with himself.

"John is-" A long awkward pause. He seemed to be trying to fit conflicting pieces together.

"What, Sherlock?" No answer. "What am I?" He suspected he knew the answer, but it didn't make sense.

Abruptly Sherlock shrank improbably smaller into himself than ever and shivered forcefully. After a moment, John realized the man was sobbing. He hadn't realized the situation could get more alarming, but clearly Sherlock Holmes, even a delusional one, did nothing by halves.

"Hey, Sherlock, look at me. I'm right here. Look at me, Sherlock."

"I don't talk to hallucinations."

Alright... full sentences, however bizarre, were an improvement.

"Hallucinations can't touch you, I thought you were the genius in the room." A derisive snort. "And they certainly don't put up with you keeping a bloody bag of toes in the fridge, you dramatic sod." It was a bit harsh, he realized, and definitely off-book from what you were supposed to say to a panicking patient... but it seemed to spark a reaction. The dark mop of hair rose slowly, and suspicious eyes regarded him.

"You said those were fine..."

"Yes, I did. Like I said." He waited for that to sink in a moment.

"You're not John. I don't know how you manage to look and sound like him, but you're not."

The shaking had not stopped, but Sherlock's voice was no longer fragile and cracked. It was cold and steady now.

"You seem pretty certain of that."

"John is... " another long pause, "dead."

"I'm... _dead_?"

"No. Clearly, _YOU_ are not. John is. Don't be stupid."

He wasn't sure he could reconcile the normal sound of Sherlock's voice with the utterly bizarre and downright chilling words it spoke. His brain might just break in half in the attempt.

"And... when did this happen? I imagine I should know if I've died."

A put-upon eyeroll that translated to _I'm not repeating myself just because you're being simple._

"Moriarty. After I 'died'."

John couldn't help himself. He shuddered at the name. Just thinking about the madman who'd nearly killed them both more times than he liked to recall sent a chill up his spine.

"Sherlock... Moriarty didn't kill me. _He's_ dead. He lost."

"Snipers. Obvious."

_Oh. Oh, that explained a lot._ He supposed it should've occurred to him sooner. The victim in the last case had been shot in the head from across an empty parking lot while picking up some groceries. Jealous ex-wife had hired a hit-man. The situation did bear a striking resemblance to Moriarty's threats the day Sherlock had jumped from the roof of St. Bart's Hospital.

Now that he thought about it, Sherlock hadn't had quite his usual triumphant flamboyance in effect on the scene, and he'd been damned near silent on the way home. This had been building up right in front of his face all day and he hadn't even realized it.

"There are no more snipers, Sherlock. You got them all. Every last one. They never hurt any of us."

Sherlock shook his head vehemently.

"Don't lie to me! I'm not stupid!"

"_Sherlock_."

It was his 'I am done arguing' voice, and he knew Sherlock knew it well. They stared at each other.

"I failed." Sherlock glared at the floor looking perfectly miserable. "I saw-"

"-You came home 6 months ago-" John interrupted, heading him off before Sherlock could sink back into the panic, "-looking like you'd been dragged behind a bus, passed right the hell out in that chair-" he gestured to the leather arm-chair that was unequivocally Sherlock's, "-and we made totally gits of ourselves dancing around each other for two solid weeks until we finally just had out with it that we've been mad for each other for ages."

Sherlock stared at him, open mouthed, blinked, and then shook his head as if clearing it.

"But... I saw you- ...I saw John-"

"You didn't. I'm right here and I'm ok. You didn't fail at all. You saved my life, not to mention Lestrade and Mrs. Hudson. I was a bit pissed at Molly for a while, that she knew you were out there and didn't tell me, but I got over it."

Sherlock stared at him, trying to fit his imagined reality together with the familiar stirs of memory.

"Shirt. Off."

"Um... alright...?" John gingerly leaned back on his heels, pulling his ratty jumper over his head and unbuttoning the shirt underneath. He set them both in front of Sherlock who pushed them aside impatiently.

"T-shirt. Off."

"... Why am I stripping in our living room?"

"Ugh." Sherlock lunged forward, clearly out of patience, and took hold of the hem, dragging it none-too-gently over John's head and nearly tipping him over backward.

"Hey, take it easy!" The doctor sat awkwardly, waiting for Sherlock to see whatever it was he wanted. If it calmed him down and brought him back to reality, John could live with whatever strange requests came up.

Long fingers traced over the large puckered scar on his shoulder. He blinked, resisting the urge to lean into the touch. He had come to enjoy Sherlock's attentions to his bullet-wound scar.

Sherlock's eyes flicked from the doctor's face to his shoulder and then back. After a moment, everything seemed to click in his mind, and he sagged, whether from exhaustion or relief, it was hard to say.

"You're real. And alive..."

"You must've been in a panic. You're stating the obvious. You never do that."

"You don't understand." Sherlock drooped down onto all fours, shaking his head slowly. "I saw it. Vividly. I used to have nightmares that it had happened, but they were never so..."

"Real?"

"Exactly."

John, no longer caring that he was half-naked, reached over and hauled his flatmate bodily into his lap, nesting Sherlock's bony hips between his knees and the back of the curly head against his shoulder. He coiled his arms tightly around Sherlock's chest, unsurprised when skinny arms immediately emerged to clutch at them possessively.

"I'll have you know you have just scared the hell out of me for the last half hour or so, you great drama queen." he teased gently.

"As far as I knew, you were dead. I think I win for greatest traumatization of the day."

"Try it on for a full year."

"... Point. Though, I did apologize for that."

"Yes, you did."

"... I'm not going to win this argument, am I?"

"It's hardly an argument."

"Discussion then."

"No. You're not. Fortunately for you, I love you even if you're a massive git. D'you want tea?"

"I have absolutely no intention of moving at the moment, and I'd vastly prefer you didn't either."

"Fair enough, love."

"Did you just use a _pet name_? _On me_? _Honestly_?"

"You don't like it? I thought it fit."

"... It's tolerable..."

"It's that or 'honey'"

"You wouldn't."

"Schnookums?"

"You cannot be serious..."

"No, but your face was incredible when you thought I might be. I'll stick with 'love'. I can't even say the rest with a straight face."

"John, I say this with the utmost affection: You are an idiot."

"Most everyone is, according to you."

"True." Sherlock's face nuzzled into the hollow at the base of John's neck and rested there. He looked like a cross between a circus contortionist and a contented cat.

"You'll give yourself a crick doing that."

"I don't much care."

"Idiot."

More nuzzling. "I love you too, John."


	14. Tie the Knot

_**Author's note: **Holy wah, kids, it took me FOREVER to get back to this last chapter. Real life has been doing its level best to kick my ass, but it has not quite succeeded yet :D _

_On that note, this is the last chapter, so I hope you've enjoyed the story. I imagine I'll have more for you after Season 3. Enjoy :)_

* * *

The door of 221 Baker Street slammed a bit too loudly closed as muffled grumbling drifted up the stairs. Sherlock Holmes didn't so much as glance at the door, but he wasn't paying the slightest attention to the mass of papers strewn across the sofa, coffee table or floor anymore either. He'd found something delightfully fascinating in studying John Watson, especially when the man did such inexplicably, _painfully_ obvious things that he seemed to believe subtle and clever.

_General irritation, likely caused by that infuriating sibling of his. Not coming upstairs just yet, so probably trying to calm down before he does. Doesn't want to be seen angry. Pointless waste of time, really - he has to know it's absolutely pitifully obvious what he's doing._

_Likely a good shock will sort him out. Fortunately, I've one prepared._

A bit of shuffling at the bottom of the stairs indicated a last-minute rallying before the distinct military march-step that could only be John started upward.

* * *

"Sherlock, you in?" The door swung open.

The detective turned matter-of-factly, ignoring the question, and cocked his head to one side. "We should be married."

Two suitcases and one former military doctor's jaw hit the floor simultaneously.

"... I'm sorry... what?"

"You heard me perfectly and I detest repeating myself." Sherlock scowled, for all the world a pouting 5-year-old denied his favorite game, though internally he was congratulating himself. Not only was it immensely (if childishly) entertaining to stun his flatmate when given the opportunity; but whatever drunken escapades the infamous Miss Watson had been up to seemed quite thoroughly forgotten.

"Was... that your version of a marriage proposal... or have I missed something?"

"It was a statement, but you may take it as a proposal if you wish. Obviously, your consent _would_ be required-"

"You... want to get married? You're serious?"

He rolled his eyes. Much as he might love the man, John's occasional tendency towards stupidity never ceased to exasperate him.

"I'm perfectly serious." He waved off the question impatiently. "And what I want is to make our relationship legally recognized - marriage is simply the easiest and most universally accepted way of accomplishing that."

"You do realize two blokes getting married is not exactly 'accepted', even in London, right?"

"I'm not particularly concerned with what the morons on the street have to say about it, and frankly I doubt most of them have the necessary vocabulary to argue the point beyond the level of an intellectually challenged dust mop."

He took a moment to consider the raised eyebrow that indicated John not only wasn't convinced, but was preparing to argue that it simply wasn't sensible, too risky -blah blah, pointless bickering - and he wasn't about to have that.

"John... what I do - what _we_ do is dangerous. I am not blind to this fact - nor are you... If something happened..." He surprised himself by staggering over his words, unable to find quite the right ones, "You're already a target. People who want to hurt me try to hurt you to do it ... and I've already 'died' once. From what I gathered you received nothing but my twat of a brother as your personal stalker, which is hardly fair given the circumstances."

"If this is about money, I'm not-"

"Of course it isn't about _money_, John, don't be thick!" A teetering stack of legal textbooks received a solid kick and scattered across the floor. He paused, trying to collect himself. This had been supposed to be easy. John would recover from his shock, he'd agree, they'd have tea and watch a terrible movie on the telly. Instead, he felt utterly adrift trying to explain himself.

_Money. Psh._ He'd had a living will drawn up the moment he was officially able, upon his return from the dead. Everything he had, from the skull on the mantel to the remains of his trust-fund - down to the chemistry equipment near-permanently installed on the kitchen table- all of it would go to John.

"Have I not been clear about my …. _feelings_ on the matter of our relationship?" He spat the word - _feelings_ -, still hating the feel of it in his mouth. Feelings were something he wasn't supposed to have to deal with. He hated admitting to their existence at all, much less exploring them out loud.

"Sherlock-" The irritated silence radiating off of the detective was oppressive. "... If you're trying to sell me on all the logical reasons we should get married, you're wasting your time entirely-" He held up both hands to stop the immediate indignant response. "- but you know you always get your way in the end, you incredible bastard, so you might as well have just asked like a normal person so I could just bloody say 'yes'."

A slow, satisfied grin replaced the glowering pout.

"So you are in fact, consenting now, then?"

"You know, it's a good thing I'm not the romantic sort... Yes, I'm 'consenting'."

"Good. Well then, that's settled." Fit of temper promptly forgotten with a brisk clap of his hands, Sherlock was back to beaming. He stepped nimbly over the forgotten debris of his casework, brushing through the doctor's personal space with his usual disregard. "I've got all the necessary forms..." He glanced distractedly over the chaos littering the room "...somewhere. But first, I thought we might celebrate."

"This is going to involve getting chased, shot at, and possibly blown up, isn't it?"

"No no - nothing so mundane. This one's an arsonist. I thought the occasion called for something special."

"Well, you certainly know how to sweet-talk a fellow, don't you?"

"I would hate for you to feel that I never take you out. Now get your jacket and hurry up. I need to question the gas-station attendant and there are remains in the morgue that I can only hope Anderson hasn't had a chance to bungle yet and those will need to be sorted out."

"God, can you picture the face he'll make when he hears about this?"

"I'm trying not to... It's bad enough when I have to look at him in person."


End file.
